


Penmanship

by PatPrecieux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Letters, M/M, Season/Series 01, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 10:56:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14447820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/pseuds/PatPrecieux
Summary: John receives a series of anonymous letters.





	Penmanship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts), [ChrisCalledMeSweetie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/gifts), [DaisyFairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/gifts), [AlwaysJohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/gifts).



> At first the letters seemed harmless, then creepy and then quite disturbing. What's going on- infatuation or danger?
> 
> { } Indicates contents of the letters.

The flat was actually quiet. Sherlock, having successfully completed his experiment on poisonous mushrooms, ("No git, they're NOT going in the fridge where I might accidentally put them in a salad- into the rubbish - NOW!"), was napping in his bedroom, and John was comfortably ensconced in his chair reading the latest medical journal. This one dealt with common childhood diseases, causing John to silently chortle at the thought the information might come in handy when dealing with his flatmate. 

The silence was so profound that he jumped at the gentle tapping on the closed door. "Ooh hoo, dears, post is in."

Martha didn't usually deliver the mail upstairs so she must have an ulterior motive. Sweet as she was, Hudders was not above the occasional foray from curiosity into downright snooping. John opened the door to her innocent me smile as she almost bounced into the room.

"Sherlock gone then? I didn't hear him go out, I thought he might want to have a look at these right away you know how he..."

Rocking back and forth on his heels, trying to look stern, the doctor chided, "Mrs. Hudson, you, better than anyone, knows Sherlock couldn't give a toss about our mail. If it were left to him, this flat would be little more than small pathways separating piles of unopened bills, circulars, adverts and magazines. So, what's this really about?"

Immediately her face took on a rosy flush, which John thought made her look like a schoolgirl caught in a lie. "You're becoming as obnoxious as Sherlock with your blasted deductions, John Watson, but you've found me out. I wanted to give you this, but I was rather hoping to see Sherlock's expression when I did. So he isn't home?"

"He's sleeping at the moment, and I'm not waking him for the post, so come clean, Hudders." 

She was relieved to see a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth after uncovering her ruse. "Well, it's this letter. You two so seldom get really personal mail and this is just so pretty."

This caught John off guard, "Pretty? We've gotten a pretty letter?"

"No, dear. Just you. See here, Doctor John Watson, and what a lovely pale lemon yellow envelope, a lady friend, perhaps?"

"No return address, so no clue, but I WILL know when I open it- later, much later. Ta for bringing it up for me."

"So I'm meant to go off for a day of shopping with no gossip to pass on to Mrs. Turner? You're a cruel man John."

"Only a prudent one, Martha, besides you two ladies can surely come up with something far more salacious than what I'm certain is in this letter. Off you go then."

"Just for that, I'm going to get up to a bit of mischief, might even earn myself an ASBO, and it will be your fault young man."

Grinning, John escorted her to the landing. "Of that I have no doubt. Madame, I salute you." With that, he snapped to attention, gave her his best Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers salute and closed the door.

He chuckled as he heard her grumbling as she descended the stairs, "At my time of life, you'd think he'd be more considerate of my taking an interest. Bollocks!"

Peeking in to find Sherlock still peacefully snoring, John opened his letter. Besides the pastel color of both envelope and stationery, what most stood out was the beautiful handwriting. A flowing, almost flowery script, most probably a woman's, not to mention the paper was festooned with a border of bright tulips in shades of orange and red. Yep, from a woman. 

 

{ Dear Doctor Watson,

Just a short note to express my admiration for your brilliance as a blogger. My awe of you grows with each passing day, and I wanted you to know. Have the loveliest of days, filled with the flowers of spring.

Fondly, A Secret Admirer }

 

"Wow!", John thought, "Leave it to me to attract a shy lady who fancies herself a sort of Victorian heroine. Well, never hurts to be held in awe I suppose." He found himself laughing aloud, which evidently woke a grumpy detective.

"Only you could find humor in the gas and electric bills, John. IF you care, you woke me seconds from solving the greatest murder case of my life."

"If it was a dream, that hardly qualifies as a success, besides it isn't bills. I've received a fan letter."

The disgusted look on the taller man's face made John feel a touch of regret that Martha wasn't there to see it. "A FAN letter, as in, some deluded imbecile has developed a fascination with you? Highly unlikely."

"Unlikely or not, the answer is yes, although the lady who wrote this is hardly an imbecile. Obviously well educated and, if I may say so, possessing a refined taste in idols."

"Idols?! If she has really observed you, doctor, the word idle might better apply."

" 'Course, that's me- the idle one. The one who works for a living at a real job, makes sure you eat, have a bottomless kettle of tea, does ALL the shopping and bill paying AND keeps almost everyone we come in contact with from strangling you. So, forgive me if someone finds me awesome."

"I suppose there is no accounting for someone's ill advised choices. Clearly, though, this woman has a serious lack of refinement, what ridiculous stationery. Hmmpf. I need tea."

"Don't see any fan letters for Sherlock in this lot, so I reckon it is up to me to provide YOU with tea and sympathy."

"Keep your sympathy for those who require it, Watson. Mind your swelled head can fit through the kitchen entryway, I simply cannot do without my tea."

 

***~~~***

 

A week later, John had basically put the letter out of his mind. The exception being that Sherlock refused to discuss any possibility that the author could be a former client as, in his opinion, no one so clueless as to idolize John would be intelligent enough to engage the services of the World's Only Consulting Detective.

 

The clinic receptionist smirked as she pushed the mint colored envelope with the butterfly on the flap across his desk. "Seems you've someone enamored of you, doc. Not your usual pharmaceutical updates. Want to share?"

"No, and unless you want to work through lunch you'll..."

"I take your meaning, doctor. Toddling off now." Which she did with an annoying wink.

 

He never would admit it to anyone else, but he found himself rather intrigued to read this new fan letter.

 

{ Dear John,

Sorry to have made you wait for this, but I've been so absorbed by your skill that I hardly found the time to write. You are truly a gifted physician whose talent is only eclipsed by your compassion and dedication to your craft and the welfare of those entrusted to your care. My tender heart swells with pride and takes flight like the butterfly at the thought of your accomplishments. How fortunate are the people you allow into your inner circle, would that I were one.

Affectionately, A Loyal Fan }

 

At Baker Street that night, Sherlock was less than impressed. "Honestly, John, what puerile claptrap. Are we sure this isn't some lovesick schoolgirl to whom you gave a lolli after their annual jab for whatever thing is the latest scourge on people's health?"

"What makes it so unbelievable that a woman might find me a paragon of manly virtues, and skilled to boot?"

For a moment Sherlock only blinked slowly as if the thought had never occurred to him, then he drawled, "Not to put too fine a point on the question, but it IS you we're talking about. Hardly a Marvel superhero, you're no Dr. Strange."

John bristled, "Thanks so much for THAT deduction, but I'll tell you one thing, I'd look a sight better in a goatee and my grey hair than that posh tosser ever will. I'm ordering Indian, make your own damn tea."

 

***~~~***

 

Things had been odd at 221B to say the least since John had acquired his "one-sided" pen pal, and he didn't really want an overzealous admirer to come between him and his best friend. Trouble was, he didn't know if Sherlock was as confused as he was by the intruder.

The younger man didn't seem overly interested in the letters, but resisted any discussion of them that didn't involve either insulting or dismissing John's feelings, and the doctor wasn't sure if that was because Sherlock cared too much or not enough. He saw a chance to "make nice" when Molly texted to say she had a package for Sherlock, their code for body parts. Offering to pick up the parcel, John made his way to the morgue where Molly was busy cataloging what appeared to be an endless supply of casefiles.

"Oh, John, didn't expect you. Suppose Sherlock was too lazy to come himself?", she teased.

"No, I volunteered. I can be nice at times you know", he huffed.

"Very nice, I should think. It's just I know my small contributions to Sherlock's experiments aren't your favorite things."

"Maybe not, but they do keep him mostly out of trouble. Can't fault you for that. Now if I can have... What the hell is that?!"

Molly went pale, "Hazardous spill alarm. Come on we need to evacuate until the all clear sounds."

 

Thirty minutes later, the all clear was given with no explanation for the first alarm. Now Molly was really behind in her work so John went to fetch the cancerous heart she had promised Sherlock. Opening the the walk in cooler, he located the organ and was shocked to find a lavender envelope resting against the sealed plastic container. For a brief moment, he entertained the idea that Molly might be his fan, then he sobered himself with the knowledge that she did indeed hold a burning flame for someone- Sherlock, who predictably, was disinterested to a fault.

"Ah, Molly, you didn't by any chance leave me a letter in the cooler did you?"

"You found a letter in the cooler? How odd. Wasn't me, problem?"

"I wouldn't have thought so, but this is a bit creepy to be honest. I've been getting these, I guess you'd call them fan letters from some woman, but only at home and the clinic. This is..."

"I think creepy IS the word. Well I guess it's a good thing she has that heart instead of yours. Oh, dear, that was more fun sounding in my head than hearing it just now. Sorry."

"No worries, Molls, I'll just be getting this home before himself starts hanging from the light fixtures."

 

***~~~***

 

This letter was embellished with hummingbirds on the paper and scented with some sort of fragrance John couldn't place.

{ Dearest Johnny,

Nothing could be more appropriate to express my ardor for you, sweet man, than the heart upon which this letter rests. My blood hotly flows pumped by my desire for you, and my heart beats as wildly as the hummingbird's wings at the sight of your regally handsome face. You are in my dreams both waking and asleep. My loins throb with arousal when I behold your magnificent body. I live for the day that we shall be together.

With torrid passion, a Smitten Soul. }

 

"Alright Sherlock, I have to say these letters are beginning to be worrisome. I mean, here and the clinic are places you might expect me to get mail, but this was hand delivered and to a less than obvious locale."

"Less obvious to you perhaps John, but if the lady is tracking your movements, she would be aware that we make frequent trips to Molly's domaine. I'm sure there's nothing to be concerned with, save this person's proclivity for purple prose, or is that lavender prose?"

"Ha bloody ha! This time you're getting dinner, and I do mean getting. You can flounce your way down to Angelo's and bring back sacks full, and don't even think about having it delivered."

 

***~~~***

 

"Don't know what to tell you mate, it's your letter. Don't shoot me because it was left in my cubbyhole at the front desk."

John was holding the corners of the cerulean blue envelope as if the bright red ladybugs on it would crawl off the paper and up his arm. "No one saw who left it, Greg, you're sure?"

"John I wish I could tell you, but that lobby is a zoo at best and today it's been a fucking lunatic asylum. The P.M. could have waltzed in here with Meghan Markle on his shoulders and no one would have given them a second look. Is something going on, and why aren't you you looking into it, Sherlock?"

"Because nothing is going on and John is currently being the drama queen of Baker Street. It's a harmless flirtation and I'm sure the lady will move on to a more worthy object of her romantic nonsense soon enough."

"Well, if John is worried, you should be too, if you're his friend."

For the first time, Sherlock was taken aback, sputtering, "I am his best friend, he's told me so frequently."

"Then act like it, genius. Check for fingerprints at the very least, and you should call Mycroft."

"Did I hear my name?"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Lovely as always to see you, brother mine. If it is any of your business, Gregory and I have a luncheon date to discuss appropriations for his division here in the Yard."

"Yes, that among other things", Greg giggled, "now let's hear this letter."

 

{ My beloved J,

I can no longer contain my lewd and lascivious longing to have you possess me body and spirit. I will gladly be the ladybug perched upon your shoulder as you go through your day and then throw myself naked and writhing upon the floor at your feet begging you to ravish me to the depths of erotic euphoria until there is nothing left of me but a faint shadow, my life force drained by the ferocity of your lovemaking. My darling, there is no sacrifice too great, no degradation too overwhelming to extinguish my insatiable want of you. Once joined, we never shall be parted.

With eternal and undying love, Your Slave. }

 

"Jesus Christ, John. She sounds like a nutter."

"I'm inclined to agree. Doctor, this has passed the stage of a crush and entered the realm of celebrity stalking."

"I'm not a celebrity, Mycroft but I'll second the stalking part. Maybe you two could take a look into it for me before..."

"No need, gentlemen, I will see to my blogger. I doubt there's any danger but if there is, we will deal with it on our own!"

With that, Sherlock practically dragged John out of the Yard and forced him into a cab, repeating the performance when they arrived home.

 

"Sherlock, they were only trying to help, and even you have to admit that this business has gone a bit not good. I mean, this person could be a threat not just to me but to you as well. If something happened to you because of me, I'd never forgive myself."

The detective looked stunned, "I hadn't looked at it that way, John, apologies. I will endeavor to investigate immediately, but I have a question for you. If this woman was less stalkerish, would you find her messages appealing?"

"Putting the creep factor aside, what man wouldn't love that sort of adoration and hero worship? Had she been normal and not a potential crazed kidnaper or homicidal maniac, I would be keen to get a leg over, yeah. Except maybe less pastel paper, I prefer rainbow hues."

"That's enough input John. The case will be solved shortly, and only half my usual fee. Professional courtesy applies."

 

***~~~***

 

"Any progress since last night, or do I need a bodyguard?"

"Nearly solved, despite the lack of evidence. In the meantime, I require you go to Tesco's to do the shopping."

"Now, before you solve it? What if I'm snatched off the street and never seen or heard from again?"

"Well then both our problems are solved. I can assure you that you are safe. I, however, will make your life a misery if I don't have a large Toblerone in the next hour. I'll make a list."

John was torn between laughing and crying as he watched Sherlock dash off his list as if writing War and Peace.

"What are you writing on? Looks like you plucked it out of the bins."

"Sorry, might be beet juice, or cherry juice or the drainage from the heart experiment. If you can't bear to be seen with a piece of slightly pinkish crumpled paper I'll try to find..."

"Never mind! Just give it over."

"Not a chance, you'll lose it before you even get there. Wallet, Watson."

"Fine, but put your card in there. I'm not paying the tab for your chocolate addiction. Thank you! GOODBYE!!"

 

By the time Tesco's loomed on the horizon, John had managed to find the humor in the situation and even felt grateful that Sherlock was finally taking the "love" letters seriously. Basket in hand, he procured the largest Toblerone he could find, hang the price it was Sherlock's shout, and pulled the list from his wallet.

For a moment he was stunned into paralysis, not even swallowing. Then stupidly, he would later think, he wheeled around as if expecting an attack, reaching for the gun he had left at home. When no one was in sight, he tried to calm himself as he stared wide eyed at the list. The list that was written in the same feminine cursive as his stalker's love declarations.

Sherlock was in the habit of calling him slow, and this time he had to agree. He had seen Sherlock write the list right in front of him, so the author of the letters was......

 

***~~~***

 

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, get your entitled arse in here right this second- or sooner!!"

Looking a cross between pleased and wary, Sherlock slunk into the room as if going to his doom. "Solved it then did you?"

"Solved it? What the bloody hell did you think you were doing you berk?! Was this meant to be funny or cute? Well it wasn't, it was a shitty thing to do. What happened? Did you get nervous when Greg and Mycroft threatened to see to it? If they hadn't would you have gone on harassing me for weeks, enjoying my increasing worry? You should be ashamed of yourself, but of course you aren't, you never are. At least, explain to me why, Sherlock, why would you do this to me? I thought you cared about me as much as you're able to care about anybody in YOUR world."

"I do care."

"What was that? Can't hear you, speak up, and make it good."

"I said, I do care. That's the problem, John, I care too much, but I couldn't find a way to tell you. I'm pants at this crappy stuff."

"And you thought writing me letters from a strange woman would get your point across?"

"Certainly not, but I thought it would allow me to discover if the romantic things she wrote would be "interesting" to you."

"Then you could speak for yourself, I suppose. So you were behind it all. The subterfuge at the morgue and the Yard as well. Oh Sherlock, if that wasn't so stupidly sweet, I'd throttle you."

"Sweet, you think I'm sweet?"

"Yep, and a bunch of other things my secret admirer wrote about. Matter of fact, I'm really determined now to get a leg over, if you have the time. Unless, places to be, things to do?"

"I'll check my day planner, but I may have fifteen or so minutes to spare."

"Believe me Sherlock, what I have in mind for us is measured in years not minutes. So, if you don't want to be, what was it, naked and writhing on the floor at my feet, you'd better say so now. Otherwise, you're about to have your literary education vastly expanded."

"Perhaps I could learn from you, doctor. Teach me tonight. I suggest the bed however as the floor may or may not have been contaminated by a substance that might, allegedly, be an irritant."

 

John hadn't intended for his lesson plan to go beyond snogging 101, frottage 201 and mastubation 069, but Sherlock proved an apt pupil and soon they were fully engaged in Penetration for Advanced Studies. As John drove the lesson home to Sherlock's prostate, he declared the examination requirements satisfied and Sherlock a graduate- summa "cum" laude. 

Both men passed on the Commencement Ceremony preferring to clean up. As John gently wiped the mix of cum and lube from Sherlock's chest and stomach he couldn't resist. "It shouldn't matter, but now that I know why you did it, I need to know how. You have the worst handwriting in the universe. How did you..."

"No I don't. That IS my real handwriting. In school I was already bullied mercilessly, and imagine the delight of my tormentors to discover my cursive script resembled the quill scratchings of a Jane Austen damsel in distress."

"So to defend yourself you developed the most illegible handwriting known to man. Wish I'd been there to defend your honor. Would have murdered them with my bare hands."

"I like that idea, and from now on, I'll use my best handwriting, but only for you of course. I have a reputation to maintain. While we're at it, I didn't think through the possible negative aspects of my plan, which I regret."

John kissed him deeply, "Good thing I love you so much, you're forgiven."

Sherlock looked near tears, "You have no reason to trust me, but I love you too, John. Honestly I do, whatever I can do to make it up to you..."

"Tonight was a good start, which we will continue. But that's not the end of it, I think some punishment is in order don't you?"

"Yes sir."

"I like the sound of that, keep it up. Now as to your punishment, since you seem to enjoy it, writing lines seems an appropriate consequence to me. Tonight, more lessons. Tomorrow, you're to write "I love John Hamish Watson" one hundred times in your best handwriting, and take a care because each line that isn't to my liking is going to earn you a smack to that beautiful bountiful bum of yours. Back to bed. Next lesson, ropes and rimming."

 

***~~~***

 

Sherlock stood grinning like the Cheshire Cat as he handed his one hundred lines to John the next morning.

"Sherlock what the buggering fuck?! Not a one of these lines even resembles any human language. I warned you what would happen."

Sherlock blushed beautifully and threw John his best come hither look. "I believe I was promised a smack for each poor line."

"Too right, so care to explain?"

Ruffling his curls just the way John liked them, Sherlock turned his back and pulled his sleep pants down to bare his pale arse.

"Don't doubt my methods, John. After all, what's the point of having good penmanship if you don't know when to use it?"

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a blurb on tumblr about how truly terrible Ben's handwriting is, and my personal sadness that schools are seriously considering eliminating teaching cursive writing. 
> 
> Seems odd to whine about that while writing on my iPad, but, if after another generation, we no longer have ANY beautifully penned letters from loved ones, the world will be poorer for it. And no, I don't think a love letter printed in block letters is a suitable replacement, unless it's from an adoring five year old. 
> 
> I enjoy hearing from you and thanks for reading. ❤️ Pat


End file.
